


Numb

by thatgirlwhodraws



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationship, Angst, Drug Abuse, First Person, Future Castiel, Future Fic, Future Verse, M/M, future!verse, spousal abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:31:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgirlwhodraws/pseuds/thatgirlwhodraws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean always seems to set after me when I’m coming down from a high.  I realized this was a conscious decision – he wants me to feel it when he hurts me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Numb

Dean always seems to set after me when I’m coming down from a high.  I realized this was a conscious decision – he wants me to feel it when he hurts me.

He watches me, eyes predatory, like I’m a slab of meat.  The drugs numb me enough that I don’t care – and sometimes, I’ll look right back and him and laugh, and watch the hatred flare in his eyes.  He doesn’t like it when I laugh at him.  Not anymore.

Years of watching me drown myself in drugs have taught him to notice the signs of them wearing off.  There’s a slight shake to my hands, my smile fades, and I can feel more than I usually do.  The numbness I get with drugs has become my reality. Sobering up always feels like a nightmare or a bad trip. 

Dean used to let me go numb before he used me.  He’d give me some sort of warning, at least.  Now I have to try and notice the  _look_  before he hits me.

I can still feel the buzz along my nerves when Dean slams me up against the wall. I choke out a laugh, despite the pain. I’m still smiling, and he hates it.  Dean’s teeth dig into the side of my jaw.  He’s not hurting me in an effort to arouse me, but it does anyway.  He hurts me for the sake of hurting me, these days.  No matter what he’s done, I still react to him every time.  I follow obediently.  Sometimes, in between drugs and booze, I regret ever letting him touch me in the first place. This was one of those times.

“Dean…”

“Shut up; I’m not in the mood for your crap tonight.” Dean snaps, tearing open my shirt with a sharp jerk, tossing the fabric aside. My pants go next, and he’s unbuckling his own within a few moments.  He rummages in my drawers, coming out with the oil I use for my own pleasure.  Dean used to spend hours just preparing me, drawing out my pleasure until I begged and sobbed for more.  Now he just goes through the motions and thinks only of himself, wetting me just enough to slip in before he takes what he wants.

Dean grabs me by my hair, turning me around and shoving the side of my face against the wall.  There’s a twinge of pain as my skin grinds into the rough wood, though I soon forget about that when two wet fingers roughly forced their way inside me.  A ragged gasp escapes my throat, and Dean growls – even that much noise was too much.  For a moment I tremble in fear, on edge, my cock hard and pressed against the wall despite the terror and pain.

His fingers curl suddenly, pressing against that sweet spot inside, and my mouth drops open, a noise caught in my throat. He’s trying to make me cry out now, trying to force a noise from me, so he has an excuse to use more force.  Sweat trickles down my temple as I barely manage to stay silent, and Dean finally pulls his fingers away.  That brief, sweet pleasure makes me tingle all over.  I ache for him.

I can hear Dean lubricating himself, and I instinctively spread my legs.  He makes a noise of disgust behind me, gripping my hips with slick fingers, nails digging into my skin hard enough to cut and bruise.   I can’t halt the sharp groan that escapes as he presses in – too quickly, enough that the stretch of it makes me burn and ache.  It hurts, but to feel him inside again, to feel that connection – I want it so badly, I could get on my knees and beg like a cheap whore for it.   The one time I did, drunk and needy for affection, he beat me so badly I couldn’t get out of bed the next morning. 

It’s hard to think of anything but the  _pain_  and the  _pressure_  as he pounds into me, rough and hard.  His hips move with finesse, striking my prostate each time he jerks his hips forwards.  Even if he doesn’t try to pleasure me, it feels  _good_.  If I close my eyes, I can almost remember what it felt like when we used to make love.  But he’s cold now; detached.  He never fully leans into me when we do this, keeping just enough distance between us to have cool air licking at my back.  I am a tool for his pleasure, nothing more.

I’m digging my nails into the wall now, trying to hold on as he takes me.  My heart is pounding in my chest.  I try to focus on the pain; on squeezing my muscles around him each time he thrusts forwards.  I’ve learned by now that ending things as soon as possible is preferable to anything else.  Dean hasn’t complained. With a choked moan against the back of my neck, his hips stutter forwards, and wet warmth fills me from the inside.  A soft whimper escapes me as he pulls back, using the remnants of my shirt to wipe himself clean. 

Looking at me in disgust as I turn around, his eyes rake over me.  I barely see the movement, feeling the sting in my cheek as I collapse to my knees, a red print appearing across my jaw from the force of it.  I’m lucky he hit with an open hand.

“I’m leaving on a mission in the morning.” His voice is gruff, detached.  Dean is pulling his pants up now, buttoning them. “I’ll be back in a few days.” 

I smile, chuckling quietly.   His ‘hunts’ these days don’t usually go very well.   I usually expect a beating.  It’s not uncommon. Without responding, he leaves me to tend to my own pleasures.

Achy and filthy, I wrap my fingers around my length, stroking myself hard and fast.  I can feel myself smiling, but tears are sliding down my cheeks as I choke back a sob, my head bowed.  When I climax, it only provides a physical sense of relief – leaving me drained and exhausted, the sobs coming in succession now as I try to breathe. With shaking fingers, I fumble with a bottle of pills sitting on the cabinet beside me, popping two into my mouth and swallowing them with water.

Climbing into bed, I pull my blankets around me, eyes shut tight.  I feel miserable, sick; like I’d want nothing more than to expel all the agony inside with a single expulsion.  I can taste bile in the back of my throat as the pills begin to kick in, numbness starting in my chest and spreading outwards towards my extremities.

I’m crying, and I’m laughing.  I’m sore, but it seems hilarious now.  The tears are wetting my blankets, and I don’t care.  When I’m high, it doesn’t matter what Dean does.  It’s easier to stay loyal when I don’t care.


End file.
